jay halstead and surviving
by penwielder62
Summary: soldiers are never the same when they get home from a warzone and jay halstead is no different. (fourth in the original posting order of my cpd metas.)


there's a crap ton that we don't know about jay halstead's past, but i know military and ptsd and that's where this meta set goes. so **content warnings** for mentions of suicide and post traumatic stress.

(credit to the creators of _chicago p.d._ where it is due.)

* * *

erin drives because jay is overcautious about it. he never tells her but the bumps and pot-holes that jar the car make his blood run cold and his stomach turn over. his fingers spasm, wanting to reach out for _mouse_ –erin– _erin_ – _mouse_ ( _where am i?_ ) before he takes a breath and his world is upright again.

there is always a gun under his pillow when he sleeps. not always loaded–sometimes the magazine is on the bedside table–but the 9mm luger is there for his fingers to wrap around so that he can rest easy.

for the longest time, jay doesn't trust himself to stay the night with erin. he sleeps too deeply beside her and doesn't trust himself to not lash out if he gets woken abruptly. she doesn't deserve that. she doesn't deserve him.

jay watches late night documentaries when uneasiness settles low in his veins and keeps him from sleep. he whittles away night hours with one hand resting on his handgun and the other worrying away at buttons on the remote, getting scant few minutes of rest before rising to go for a run and head to work.

jay struggles remembering to keep his anger in check. to remember that fire that burns in his chest has hurt and will hurt the people around him. he learns to channel it but sometimes a case rips open an old wound and he fights to keep a handle. ( _and fails, and succeeds, and fails, and succeeds, and succeeds._ )

ruzek invites the guys out to a see a movie. jay grins (always, because they won't question it) and says, "nah, i'm good." there probably won't ever be a day he'll be able to sit through _american sniper_ without suffering flashbacks that set him back years in healing.

it's gotten easier over the years, but jay still saves his days of leave for when the anniversaries start pressing in. he drives through the night to wisconsin, arriving before he's gripped too tight in memories to function.

(he never sleeps while he's there, on those days, the roar of the bomb under the humvee filling his ears as blood stains his hands again. _come on, keller, come on, stay with me_.)

alvin comes over, sometimes. unannounced, a six-pack in tow, and jay offers whatever takeout he has leftover. there are times they talk, others where they barely say ten sentences. there's a relief in the solidarity.

jay doesn't realize how much he disconnects when he's behind the scope of his sniper rifle until erin's at his side, spotting, tethering him to the then and now, keeping him from getting lost in the past.

mouse still hesitates whenever he comes over and jay has his 9mm on the table. the conversation hasn't changed much over time. _i haven't gone back there. it helps me rest easier, now_.

(they both remember the night jay held a similar weapon to his temple, raw with grief, guilt, a pain that never left him. it took greg hours to talk him down and months for jay to swear not to do it again.)

the unbent wristbands lay in the drawer of his bedside table. jay gets up every morning and stares down at the engraved names, remembering the faces, and promises to do better by their memory.

jay doesn't always see it but sometimes he does–they're all doing their best to support him–and there are times antonio invites him to the gym after a case and it's just them and burning lungs, aching muscles, absolution in the basest of ways and jay is grateful.

jay knows relief when he doesn't have to tell erin that it can be bad, that she already knows because she knows _him_ and can tell when he's off–she knows when to give him space, when jarring him awake isn't wise, understands when a silence isn't intentional, he just _can't_.

the worst part about knowing he loves erin is that he knows he'll fail in protecting her–that she will slip through his fingers one day, that he will not be enough to save her, even if he would lay down his life in exchange for hers. ( _she has to live or i can't._ )

there's always the nights where he's been awake for days and he finally sleeps, sitting up on the couch with his fingers curled around his 9mm, starting awake at every noise. (until erin; he can sleep beside her, trusts her enough completely that his vigilance wanes, lets him rest.)

it's after a case with former soldiers–guns from afghanistan, a black market racket–that voight calls jay into his office. the file on his desk is familiar, emblazoned with the army's seal. never question a superior. _you ever need anything, you tell me. you got that, kid_?

there are times when jay struggles to remember that erin came back ( _she left, but she came back_ ); out on an interview with ruzek and feeling that hollowness taunt him again. the odd night at home alone, fingers curling with the memory of a loss that left him more bruised than she'll ever know.

jay and mouse go back to d.c. every november, for veteran's day, year after year. it's gotten easier, walking through arlington. the first time pushed them both past their limits, but now they can lean against each other and make it through. ( _they died, so that we might live_.)

* * *

followed by "erin & jay: scarring, marring" in the original posting order from tumblr.

thank you for perusing this scrawl! comments, critiques, and concerns are always welcome.


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